


And Wednesday Too

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Dates, First Time Bottoming, Flashbacks, M/M, Movie Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco never expected anything better than his two dead end jobs and a cramped flat, but when Harry Potter waltzes into his life, can anyone blame him for wanting a little more? (A remix of firethesound's <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1159996">Tuesday Nights</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Wednesday Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firethesound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tuesday Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159996) by [firethesound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/pseuds/firethesound). 



> firethesound, I remember reading Tuesday Nights a year or more ago and enjoying it, and it was one of the fics I immediately short listed for your remix. What finally made me choose it was wanting to know more about what was going on from Draco's point of view, and what he'd spent those three weeks at Grimmauld Place thinking about. I hope you enjoy what I came up with!  
> Many thanks to my betas for reading and re-reading this, and helping me make it better.

The door of 12 Grimmauld Place swings open and Draco is met with the musty smell of a house long empty. With his two-day-old wand in one hand and the house key in the other, to Draco it smells like a second chance.

He's almost afraid to step foot inside. A weekend in Ireland and having money to spend is one thing, but an ancestral house is quite another. Entering will make it all real, more real than he ever could have imagined. It will make Potter's largesse tangible and impossible to ignore.

Not that Draco's been trying to ignore it, exactly. Rather he's been too busy running off to Ireland, buying a wand and getting his magic back. But that excitement is over; he's cast dozens of Lumos spells, levitated everything in his hotel room and Apparated to the most remote parts of the Irish countryside. It's time to stop not exactly ignoring things.

As he walks over the threshold, Draco gently closes the door behind him and is left in darkness. He casts a Lumos and the hallway lights up. The carpet is threadbare, the wallpaper is peeling, and the umbrella stand is hideous, but it's his. His hallway, his house, to refurbish and redecorate as he pleases. It's still a little hard to believe. A week ago Draco had a mouldy shoebox flat, two jobs and nothing going for him. Now he has a mouldy large house, a vault full of Galleons and the feeling that it's all come to him too easily.

Can Potter really be this altruistic? To literally hand Draco the keys to a better life, and expect nothing in return? Part of Draco can't help but wonder what hidden agenda Potter has, what angle he's working, and what he wants from Draco. After all, it's what Draco has been worried about, right from the start.

= = =  
= = =

Draco all but charged down the street towards the cinema. He'd showered as soon as he'd got home from the café, but his drizzle of lukewarm water couldn't clean away the feeling of grease. He might wear rubber gloves, of course, but on a day where it seemed everyone was ordering the bloody soup, gruel seemed to ooze right through them and into his skin. It would be days before Draco felt truly clean again. He was more than ready to lose himself in a film for a couple of hours.

By the time he arrived at the cinema, Draco was already starting to feel more content. He paid his pound and with the ticket in his hand, Draco felt some of the day's stress drift away. The tension in his shoulders drained as he got his first whiff of popcorn. He was ready for the dark room and old fashioned cinema seats to help the last of his worries slip from his mind. Draco pushed at the door and entered the screen.

As he started down the aisle, all the tension that had been leaving him surged through Draco's body in an instant. In the seats to the right Draco caught sight of an unmistakeable head of wild hair and low light reflecting off a pair of round glasses, which proved more stress-inducing in one moment than eight hours of washing half empty bowls of revolting soup.

Draco paused only for a second, and then he was dashing down the aisle, stiff with tension, to his usual seat.

He didn't bother looking back; he knew it was Potter. He'd spent the last three years mistakenly seeing familiar faces out of the corner of his eyes. For months, any dark haired young woman was Pansy, every hulking brute was Goyle. He'd even thought he'd seen his mother on a couple of occasions. But that had been wishful thinking—and Draco would never wish for Potter. It was really him.

Draco remembered none of the film. He spent the entire 90 minutes stiff with anxiety, hands writhing in his lap. His mind whirled fruitlessly as he tried to answer question after question: Why was Potter there? Was he looking for Draco? Was he here to haul Draco back the wizarding world? To make him pay even more than the Ministry already had? Was he here to check up on Draco? To make sure he was behaving? To check he was suffering adequately? Was he here to make Draco's miserable life the fraction worse it could get?

Draco barely noticed when the film finished. The light from the credits shone, unseen on his face. His focus, from the very corner of his eye, was Potter, still sitting in his seat. Eventually—thankfully—Potter got up and left. Draco's shoulders relaxed a fraction, but he knew it might not be over yet.

After a few minutes, the lights came up and Draco finally walked back up the aisle to the doors. He poked his head through and gazed around, but saw no sign of Potter. With relief, he stepped out into the empty foyer and dashed off to the grocer's as quickly as possible.

He hoped the whole thing had been a horrible coincidence, but still, Draco couldn't settle all evening at work, and slept fitfully that night.

\- - -

Draco had not forgotten Potter when, a week later, he entered the cinema again. He was so preoccupied with the possibility that Potter would be there again that he'd almost chopped a couple of fingers off while washing the chef's knives.

On his way into the theatre Draco glanced apprehensively to the right, but Potter's seat was empty. Draco was so relieved that he didn't notice that the seat beside his own usual place was taken until he was at the row. He stopped, indecisive as his eyes locked with Potter's. He didn't want to sit down next to Potter—didn't want to have any part in whatever game Potter was playing. But he couldn't leave. As much as he didn't want to play Potter's game, he wanted to know what game it was.

So, begrudgingly, he slid himself into his usual seat, right beside Potter. Draco looked straight ahead, hoping that if he didn't look at him, Potter would just go away. But he couldn't stop himself from asking, “Why are you here?”

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter's shoulders rise in a shrug.

“I've got nowhere else to be.” Then Potter asked, “Why are you here?”

Draco shrugged, as much to himself as to Potter. He thought briefly of his life—his days washing dishes, his nights stacking shelves; his grotty flat stuffed with oversized furniture; his empty fridge and his emptier stomach. He hadn't the energy to lie.

“To escape, for a while.”

Potter didn't reply, and Draco was almost grateful.

Neither of them spoke through the film, and Draco only half paid attention. He couldn't stop wondering about the man beside him. Potter might not have anywhere else to be, but that still didn't explain why he was _here_.

It wasn't as easy as a coincidence any more—Potter had chosen to come back to the cinema. Chosen to sit in the seat next to Draco's. Why? Draco was no longer sure he wanted to know. He didn't want reasons—not if they were going to drag him back to a world he no longer belonged in.

When the film finished, Draco didn't give Potter a chance. He jumped up and disappeared swiftly up the aisle and out the doors.

= = =  
= = =

After living at Grimmauld Place for a week, Draco can honestly say the house is growing on him. At first he was simply glad to have _a_ house, but wasn't that enamoured with _this_ house. It was large, dark and full of Doxies. Now, he's starting to appreciate its more redeeming features.

The stone floor in the kitchen is beautiful, and not impractical if Draco remembers to throw down a warming charm before walking on it barefoot in the mornings. The windows in the drawing room are impressive and let in wonderful afternoon sunshine now he's Scourgified them a few dozen times.

He still needs to do something about that bloody painting, but Draco would hate to have to resort to fire; his Mother had loved her old batty aunt at some point—she's a link to his past, to his family.

But overall, the house is coming along nicely, and Draco doesn't hate living in it. It's growing on him more and more each day, with every room he empties, every dark relic he tosses, and every elf head he Vanishes.

He's warming to this house quicker than he warmed to Potter, which is saying something. It had seemed like no time at all before he grew to not hate having Potter around.

= = =  
= = =

Despite his concerns, Draco wasn't going to let Potter take away one of the few luxuries he afforded himself. So he went back to the cinema, and kept going back, regardless of Potter continually sitting beside him. Potter didn't try to talk to Draco again, and gradually Draco began to relax. Sometimes he even forgot Potter was there.

Inevitably Potter always _was_ there, and at some point—Draco won't fool himself, he knows it was since Potter told him to keep the gloves—they just started talking. They were both careful to keep it strictly about the films, and not to let it go on for longer than it took them to stand and leave the cinema. Still, Potter being Potter, he couldn't leave it at that. Before Draco knew it, it was spring and he didn't need those damn gloves, but Potter knew he worked nights stacking shelves, knew that he was desperate enough to take home battered and out of date produce, and knew exactly how and why he was living as a poor, miserable Muggle. But. But Potter didn't seem to care, he didn't seem to have an agenda, and he did keep coming back.

Draco found it was nice being able to talk freely, about magic, his own life, and about Muggle things that he didn't understand or just found baffling. Draco never admitted it, but he was almost glad for Potter.

Things between them changed the second Potter asked him, albeit inadvertently, out on a date and—the point Draco chose to focus on at the time—offered to pay.

“I've got the night off, actually,” Draco had casually dropped into conversation. “Swapped shifts with someone this week.” He didn't want Potter to think he'd done it on purpose, or to make Potter think he had to spend time with Draco.

“Oh. Um,” Potter replied, “want to go get dinner then?”

Draco shook his head and cringed. He should have known Potter would want to do something that involved money. “I can't afford it.” Potter knew Draco's situation; there was no point lying.

“That's fine, I'll pay.”

Just like that. With no fuss or bother or hesitation, Potter offered to buy Draco dinner. Draco was shocked, but refused to let it show. He raised an eyebrow and went for humour. “Are you asking me out on a date, Saint Potter?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I am.” Potter seemed shocked at his own words, but didn't seem in any kind of hurry to take them back.

Draco stood, his face slack as his mind whirled. Potter was gay? Potter was gay and interested in Draco? Potter was both of those things and willing to pay to take Draco on a date? Before he'd thought it all through enough, Draco had made his decision. He found himself nodding. “Oh. Well, alright then.”

As they made their way through the streets to the restaurant that smelt deliciously of garlic, Draco steered his thoughts away from Potter's bright smile and pleasant company; he couldn't let himself get lost there. It would never be feasible, and Draco would be fooling himself if he thought anything could come of spending time with Potter in the long term.

Instead Draco fell back to old habits he'd thought long forgotten, and he focused on Potter's generosity. A nice smile and good conversation were enjoyable, if surprising, but an open wallet was something Draco knew what to do with. He didn't hate having Potter around as it was. What would a little flirting and kissing hurt if it helped get him a hot meal once in a while? Maybe he could wrangle a box of chocolates out of Potter. Even, in time—not that this was likely to last long—some nice aftershave so he'd have something nice to smell while he stood over dirty dish water. Draco tried not to let his anticipation show as they walked, lest Potter mistake it for excitement about their date, because it certainly wasn't.

Draco was broken out of his thoughts by Potter, who had obviously been having some thoughts of his own.

“So, um, you like blokes?”

Draco laughed. “Isn't that something you should have worked out before asking me on a date?” Draco couldn't prevent his anticipation bubbling over into his teasing of Potter.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Yes, Potter, I like blokes. How about you?”

“No,” answered Potter easily.

Draco stiffened. Had he read this all wrong? Did Potter have a ulterior motive? Why on earth would he ask Draco out if he _wasn't_ gay? All of Draco's plans to seduce Potter fell to pieces in an instant.

Then Potter was still hurriedly talking. “Not in general, anyway. I just like you in particular. You always had to be an exception.”

He smiled with relief—Potter _did_ want him. Perhaps Potter was only just coming to terms with the realisation that he liked men; Draco could help him figure out his sexuality, even if it was another reason whatever they were doing likely wouldn't be long term.

“Hm, well, naturally.”

Potter looked relieved, and a little nervous. Draco wanted to grin; this date with Potter was going to be fun.

The warmth and smells inside the restaurant were almost too much for Draco. It wasn’t exactly The Harrow, but he hadn’t been inside anywhere fancier than the café in a long while. It all went to his head as he followed the hostess and Potter to an intimate table at the back of the room. Draco couldn’t help but return the pressure when he felt Potter’s foot against his under the table. When Potter’s only reaction was to grab the wine list and intensively study it, Draco smiled.

Draco wasn't sure if it was the wine list, or his own insistence that whatever this was with Potter wouldn't go anywhere, but apparently old habits died hard. It had been an age since he’d been able to be snobbish about food and drink, and despite the fact he was little rusty, he enjoyed doing it anyway. He ended up being far ruder than he'd wanted, but Potter was there to smooth things over. In fact, despite his placations to the waiter, Draco was almost sure Potter was enjoying seeing the side of Draco he was more familiar with. Though Draco only got worse when the wine touched his lips and went straight to his head—it was nothing to do with Potter's indulgent and encouraging smiles.

“And that’s another thing,” Draco stormed right on. “If you’re going to date me, we’re absolutely going to have to educate you about things like this.” If he was going to help Potter figure out his sexuality he might as well teach him about fine dining along the way. “It’s non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Potter took a sip of his wine and almost looked like he was genuinely trying to taste it. “I guess that’s okay. I mean, as long as you’re doing the educating.”

Potter smiled, and Draco returned it easily. More dates meant more wine, more food... and more smiles and more flirting, but Draco didn't allow himself to consider that for long.

When their food came, Draco didn’t bother talking. It was the best meal Draco had had in years, and he ate with gusto. All his half-baked ideas and half-ignored hopes were put on hold while he all but shovelled the food into his mouth.

The line he thought he was trying to walk between desire and pity bent a little when Potter offered Draco the remains of his own meal. He decided to lean towards pity—and not wasting food—before dragging Potter’s plate across the table. Draco also finished the wine while he was at it. He didn’t see too much danger in overindulging; he wasn’t going to seduce Potter that very night, anyway.

As they stood to leave Draco lost his balance slightly before Potter took hold of his elbow to steady him. And Draco blamed that moment for the fact that he then went on to seduce Potter that very night, anyway.

Rationale went out the window as Draco and his wine-fuelled mind dragged Potter up the stairs to his flat by the mouth. Kissing Potter was almost as intoxicating as the wine. But they didn’t stop at kissing.

It was a little awkward, but also felt powerful, instructing Potter and showing him what to do. Despite the fact that Draco had drunkenly rushed into sex, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Potter was fit and, despite his inexperience, decent in bed.

Afterwards, Draco watched Potter sleep. He looked so peaceful and trusting and _good_. Draco had no doubt, despite the fact they'd rushed things, that he could have Potter wrapped around his finger and spending money on all sorts of things if he wanted to. And if Draco felt any kind of uncomfortable pang deep in his gut about the prospect, it was only because it had been so long since he'd had the opportunity to manipulate someone or some situation to get what he wanted—he was out of practise. But it would all come back to him soon enough.

Finally Draco closed his eyes and laid his head in Potter's arm. He breathed in Potter's scent, ignored that uncomfortable pang, and drifted to sleep.

\- - -

By noon the next day, Draco ached all over. He only wished it was because he was still in bed with Potter. Instead, he was standing over a sink full of dirty pots.

He stretched out his back and lifted his arms above his head, interlocking his green rubber glove encased fingers and making them click. He hated his job, Andrew wasn't there yet and his back felt like it was about to break from bending over the sink. The only consolation Draco had was the fleeting glimpses of Potter whenever Rabia took out a meal or brought him more dirty pots.

Potter sipped his coffee, read some of the leaflets and posters scattered about the place, and on more than a few occasions Draco caught him looking at him and smiling as the door was opened. The most astounding thing though, was that Potter was still here at all. With an eight hour shift, and Andrew running late, Draco had expected Potter to make his excuses and leave.

Despite his aching back, the stupid soup bowls and the long shift, Draco found himself smiling. He decided it was because his plan was already working so well.

= = =  
= = =

The table is strewn with papers. Furniture catalogues, colour swatches and shopping lists. With the house cleaned and cleared, Draco has moved on to the redecorating. He's finished the kitchen, study and drawing room and he's moving on to the hallways, stairs and bedrooms.

Right now, however, he's transfixed by one small piece of parchment among the many that litter the table. It's the one that has just been delivered by the owl, who still sits on the back of the chair opposite Draco.

For the past two weeks Draco has thought of nothing but Potter, while being acutely aware of the fact that he's avoiding Potter. With his note, Potter has made avoidance impossible; Draco doesn't want to outright ignore Potter, so he has to reply. The problem is, he still doesn't know what to say.

Draco wonders how long he can hide here before Potter knocks on the door or Apparates right into the kitchen. He's not _really_ hiding if Potter knows where to find him. Except Potter all but gave him an out. He gave Draco the money and the house, and despite Potter's name still being on the paperwork, he said he'd leave Draco alone, and Draco believes he will.

With a sigh, Draco drops his head to the table. Draco's good at making plans, but bad at making choices. He's made so many wrong ones. He doesn't know what to say or do for the best. He lifts his head and a random scrap of parchment comes with it. Draco snatches the parchment from his forehead and scribbles a vague reply on it, telling Potter he's busy and will be in touch soon.

As the owl flies off with the message, Draco knows he's only delaying the moment he'll have to act and make a choice. For now, Draco will get back to his lists and his swatches, and get on with living in denial. He's done it before.

= = =  
= = =

Several months, plenty of hot meals, and more than a few boxes of chocolate later, and Draco was almost happy. Time with Potter was... more than satisfactory. They watched their cheap films on Tuesday nights, they went for walks in the increasingly warm and green park on Wednesday afternoons, and they shagged until they ached all day on Thursdays. Draco found himself smiling more often than not, even when he was stacking shelves and washing pots.

Better than the smiling, though, was the moaning, when he was naked beneath the bedsheets with Potter.

This Thursday, they had actually put clothes on and left Potter's house. Draco was almost impressed with himself. Almost, because he’d really rather they hadn’t. After several hours in bed, Potter’s stomach had made itself known by growling in a way Draco was familiar with but hadn’t heard in months. With no food in the fridge, clothes that had previously been tossed and forgotten were hunted out and crawled back into.

They were only out of the house for half an hour, but by the time they were back their hunger had changed—moved lower. Containers of takeout curry were abandoned under Potter’s hasty warming charm as Draco’s hands pulled at their belts.

By the time they collapsed back into Potter’s unmade bed, they were naked and hard. Draco wasted no time; he was still loose from earlier and only more desperate. He groped for the jar of lube on the bedside table, coated his hand and reached for Potter’s cock. Draco’s hand stilled when Potter’s fingers encircled his wrist.

Frowning, Draco looked up. Potter’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth, but he held Draco’s eye as he slowly manoeuvred their hands lower. Draco’s eyebrows rose as he let Potter guide him. With one slick finger, Draco ghosted a circle around Potter’s hole and tilted his head in question. Potter gave a small gasp and nodded before releasing Draco’s wrist.

In all the months and all the Thursdays they’d spent in bed together, they hadn’t done this. Draco wanted to, very much, but still, he had to be sure.

“You want me inside you?” he asked.

Potter nodded again before adding, “Yes, I—You said, that first time—”

“‘Wait till you try it from this end.’” Draco remembered, but somehow he hadn’t expected Potter to want to. If this, what they were doing here, was a Draco-only thing for Potter—if Potter wasn’t _really_ gay—Draco hadn’t thought Potter would want to be penetrated. Now, though… “Potter, just because I—you don’t have to—”

“I _want_ to.”

Then Potter’s hand was back around Draco’s wrist, pulling him forwards. Draco didn’t resist.

“Relax,” Draco said as he slipped a finger inside.

Potter laid his head back and let go of Draco’s wrist, resting his hand on his own thigh. He moaned and spread his legs as Draco gently moved his finger.

“Fuck, you’re—” Gorgeous, is what Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to say.

“More,” Potter moaned as he shifted his hips forward onto Draco’s finger.

“You’ve been practising, haven’t you?” Draco couldn’t help but smile at the blush that began to colour Potter’s cheeks. He didn’t deny it.

Draco added a second finger and sped up his movements. Potter grabbed the underside of his knees and pulled his legs back. Draco all but growled at the wantonness and soon had three fingers moving inside of Potter and stretching him.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Draco announced, giving Potter another opportunity to back out despite the height of his own arousal.

A desperate, “Yes,” was Potter’s only response.

Draco couldn't look away as he pressed the head of his cock to Potter's hole, slowly pushing his way inside. He took his time, stopping to pull back before inching forwards again. When he was almost all the way in, Potter gave a whine and Draco glanced up, worried about causing pain. Instead, Potter's eyes were closed and his mouth hung open in obvious pleasure.

Still watching Potter's face, Draco pulled out and pushed in shallowly several times. Potter squeezed his eyes shut tightly, bucked his hips and moaned. Emboldened, Draco drove himself forward to close the distance, his hips meeting Potter's and driving them both forward.

Potter gasped and opened his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Good fuck or bad fuck?” asked Draco as he paused to savour the feeling of being surrounded by Potter.

“Fuck, good fuck.” Potter's hands found Draco's amongst the bed sheets and stroked up his arms. “Now fuck me.”

Draco didn't hesitate. He leaned down close to Potter, fucking him in long, even thrusts. He didn't stop until Potter was writhing and moaning and snaking a hand in between their bodies. Draco leaned down a few more inches to kiss Potter roughly on the lips before sitting back, grabbing Potter by the hips and thrusting hard and fast.

Potter came with a shout, and the sight of him stretched out, head back and hand pumping gave Draco the push he needed. He collapsed beside Potter, slipping from him with a twinge of regret, already hoping he'd get to do that again.

As they caught their breath and waited for their heart rates to come down, Potter glanced over at Draco with a smile.

“I like it this end, too.”

\- - -

The kitchen sideboard was cold against Draco's naked back, but the container of curry in his hand was warm. He took another forkful into his mouth as he shook his head at Potter, who stood equally as naked across the room.

“There's nothing to disagree with,” said Potter. “It's _fact_ , okay?”

“Your fact is subjective; it's not my fact.”

“Your fact is wrong.” Potter said it so forcefully his soft cock wobbled a little.

Draco smiled. “You're being unreasonable.”

“I don't care what came after, only the original counts.”

“Not for me, because I haven't seen it.”

“You can't edit history; what you've seen is wrong.”

Draco shrugged. “Not to me, hence this being a subjective fact.”

“Fuck subjective: Han shot first!”

“Don't get angry with me, okay? Get angry with the cinema for showing what you believe to be an inadequately re-edited edition of Star Wars.”

Potter didn't reply, but stabbed violently at his own curry and mumbled around a fresh mouthful.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Draco took the opportunity to look freely at Potter, standing naked in his own kitchen. Draco decided he very much liked the view. His mind wandered more than his eyes, imagining lifting Potter up on to the side and bending to suck him off as he thrust his finger's inside Potter's arse.

“We should go to the theatre.” Potter's words pulled Draco back to reality. Thankfully it was a reality in which Potter was still naked in the kitchen. “We've seen so many films, but I bet a stage play would be amazing. We could go to a fancy meal afterwards to argue about it.”

“The theatre? Yeah, that sounds nice.” Draco reached for a naan bread, avoiding Potter's eye.

Draco should be pleased— _was_ pleased—it was all going to plan; Potter was still spending his money on Draco. But somehow this felt like _more_ than the plan. He might be getting what he wanted, but he had never believed Potter would be one of the things he'd want.

It was all Potter's fault too, of course. Since that damned afternoon he'd cooked Draco breakfast, had shown him his scars and told him about his childhood—had told Draco he didn't pity him. It had skewed everything. Potter always had had a way of forcing Draco to have to change his plans.

Draco's current plan was to enjoy it while it lasted. At some point Potter would wake up and decide to go back to his real life—his friends, his fans and the public eye. Potter had recently mentioned a Ministry ball he was expected to attend, and Draco wasn't fool enough to believe that he could go with him.

Eventually Draco would have to change his plans to suit. He could guilt Potter into giving him some money as a parting gift, or blackmail him, maybe, if it came to that. It should be easy enough, though by now Draco suspected some of his old habits had died easier than others.

Potter smiled across the room at him, so open and unguarded, and Draco put it all from his mind. He tossed his curry on the table, unfinished. Smiling back, Draco stalked across the room towards Potter and got on with enjoying it while it lasted.

\- - -

Then, five days later, instead of running back to his life without Draco, Potter had handed Draco two small keys and given Draco back _his_ life.

Draco hadn't known what to do. He'd held in his hand more than he'd ever dreamt he'd have again, and Potter had given it to him freely. So he'd done what any sensible person would do in his situation.

He'd run.

= = =  
= = =

It is now three weeks later, and Draco can't claim to be running any more—he's hiding.

Potter has given him money and a home, and it's more than Draco ever expected. Potter has let Draco run, for the most part, only sending an Owl two weeks into Draco's vanishing act. Draco hadn't known what to say, so he simply told Potter he's busy. And he _is_ busy.

He's been working almost non-stop on Grimmauld Place. He's re-carpeted almost every room, he's painted and wallpapered, he's re-furnished. The one thing he's yet to do is the master bedroom. He moved all the bedroom furniture from his flat into the room and that's fine—he loves his furniture and this is his room—but something is missing from it.

Draco sighs as he collapses on the bed. He knows what's missing, but has been afraid to acknowledge it. It's not just missing from the bedroom, either. It's missing from the entire house and, for the last three weeks, it's been missing from Draco's life.

Potter is missing.

Fuck the plan. Draco is grateful for all that Potter has given him, but it doesn't matter as much as he thought it would without Potter himself. Draco could manage in a tiny over-crowded dirty flat, he could cope with two shitty part time jobs, and he could find joy in the simplicities of films and walks. He was fine with it all—when he also had Potter. Without Potter, money and a nice house apparently don't mean much to him.

He wonders what Potter has been doing for the past three weeks. Is he missing Draco as much as Draco's missing him? What is he doing with himself? Still taking breakfast at the café, even with no one to wait for? Still walking in the park? Still seeing films on Tuesday nights?

Draco sits up, eyes wide and alert. Today is Tuesday. He's almost lost track of the days without a work schedule to keep to, but he's sure it's Tuesday. He checks the time. The film will have only just started. He throws on a jacket and Disapparates.

\- - -

By the time the film—that he only half watches—finishes, Draco can't wait to get Potter back to Grimmauld Place. “Shall we go?” he asks, standing and tugging on Potter's arm impatiently.

Potter comes easily, but before Draco can Apparate them away he draws to a halt.

“What?” Draco can't help the note of nervousness in his voice, but Potter doesn't seem to notice.

“What do you think?” Potter's voice is somehow both angry and disappointed. “You disappear without so much as a bloody postcard for three weeks—”

Draco sighs, regretful. “That’s not true. I wrote you.” He knows it's a weak argument; a few meaningless words on a scrap of paper is hardly a letter.

“Only because I wrote you first, and you only wrote back to tell me to leave you alone.”

Another sigh slips from Draco. He hates himself for taking so long to figure out his own feelings. “I had some things I needed to think about.”

“What sort of things?” Potter's voice is tight.

“Just things,” Draco says, not yet ready to admit to Potter what a fool he's been. “Come on, I want to show you the house.” He moves, pulling on Potter's arm again. “Please?”

With only a small amount of resistance, Potter lets himself be pulled.

\- - -

They end the tour in the master bedroom, where Draco now feels at home. With Potter there, the house is finished. There's only one thing left to do: make sure Potter stays.

So Draco lets go of his stupid plans and his self-sabotaging fears. He tells Potter how he feels, honestly now, and asks him to move in. Pushes for him to move in, convinced this is the overblown gesture that needs to be made. But more than that, he really, really wants Potter to say yes.

“It won't be easy,” says Potter, and it's not a no.

Draco's smile is all relief. “You didn't think anything to do with me would be, did you?”

“Not even for a second.”

In a few swift steps Draco is in front of Potter, his head in his hands. He looks at Potter for a second before pausing with their lips barely touching.

“Thank you,” Draco whispers.

It's not for the house or the money, and Draco thinks Potter knows that.

“What—”

Before Potter can ask, Draco has closed his lips over Potter's and is pushing them down on to their bed.

**Author's Note:**

> The [fic link](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/140454267694) and a [pull quote](http://hd-remix.tumblr.com/post/140469790422) have been cross-posted to **tumblr**. Help us promote the fest by liking and reblogging!
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